Michael Lonchar has written two plays:  “The Jackpot Casino’s Pension Plan” and “Hunting”.  He also writes poetry and is the author of a collection of monologues for actors.  He is currently writing a novel with the working title of “Hoopie”.  He was recently contacted by one of our staff and agreed to this interview.  We publish a writer’s circle periodical called “Writers Focus”.

I met Michael at a Turkish coffee house along Crown Street in New Haven.  I had suggested the location and Michael agreed with one stipulation—–that when he got too spazzed from sitting that we move about the streets until we might discover an enticing bench.  I agreed.  I was the first to arrive and set up my recording equipment while I waited.  I recognized Michael when he walked in.  We have never been introduced but I had seen his photo in the New Haven Advocate when Chris Arnott previewed his adaptation of Dostoevsky’s “Notes from Underground”, a one man show that he had performed in the city some years back.  He looked remarkably the same as the photo, though it had been taken several years earlier.   He looked the part of any typical conservative forty something, well preserved and fit.  He was wearing gray cargo shorts and sported short cropped hair.  The only distinguishing aspect about his apparel was the shirt on his back.  It was a black tee shirt with large red letters; BOYCOTT CONFORMITY above italicized letters that read; WITH YOUR MIND.  He strode in with a suspicious yet confident air about him.  He was congenial and polite.  When asked if he would care for coffee his response was “something strong that isn’t sweet”.  We began the interview.

WF;  What is a hoopie?

ML;  A hoopie is sort of a rebel.  But he’s a country fried rebel.  More like redneck or hillbilly.  Not only does the term refer to a person but it also describes a place.  Kind of like  hellhole or dog town.  Hollars and ridges.  The word is usually used by West Virginians living North of the Mason Dixon to describe their fellow statesmen living below the line.  Fuzzy line.  Maybe not the line.  Maybe just Wheeling or something. . . . . . It’s a condescension.

WF;  How would you classify your book?  What kind of book is this?

ML;  Its a love story.  Ultimately its a love story.  I think most great stories are love stories.  I mean its not a romance thriller or a soap opera bore.  Its about a higher form of love, like redemption or reconciliation.  My protagonist is a restless and desperate man.  He is a searcher.  He’s reaching for heaven in every fiber of his being.  He’ll look in the bottle.  He’ll look in a jail cell.  He’ll join your cult and he’ll listen to your song.  He’ll probably even buy your snake oil but he won’t sell his soul.

WF;  How much of you is in Patrick”Bird dog” Burgess?

ML;  A lot of me and maybe some of you, some of her.  He’s an everyman.  I couldn’t write from another view point.  Wouldn’t want to.  If we got no empathy, we got nothing.

WF;  How about Jenny Doyle?  Where did she come from?

ML;  . . . . . From heaven, man.  She probably represents the palladium of feminine influences in my life.  At least the ones that actually moved me to kindness or inspired me one step beyond.

WF;  She’s seems a bit weak willed as a feminine persuasion.  Subject to vice and all.  Are all your females living some kind of facade?

ML;  Some kind of facade?  Wake up friend.  We’re all living a facade.  We’re all whores.  You think the duchess is any less the whore then the street walker?  You’re a strong willed man?  Do any God damned thing you want ha?  What happens if I feed this interview too much violence, too much adversity.  What happens if I rant beyond composure and you’re publisher decides it ain’t “right”  for his sponsors.  Then what?  You going to go toe to toe with him.  No, I say no.  You’re going to knuckle under.  You and everyone else.  Nobility doesn’t pay mortgages, does it?

WF;  Nope.

We chuckle uneasily with each other at the tension.  It is obvious that I have touched at some sensitive chord with Michael and he seems, interestingly enough, to appreciate the idea. We both have been hiding behind a mask and agree to get real.  We decide to walk.  Our presence in the cafe has drawn attention.

WF;  Who are your literary heroes?

ML;  I love Thomas Wolfe.  His two novels “Look Homeward Angel” and “Of Time and a River” are my favorites.  Kerouac, everything.  Steinbeck.  John Updike.

WF;  What qualities do these writers possess that attracts you to them?

ML;  The word that gets kicked around a lot is existentialism.  I prefer esoterica.

WF;  Can you expound on that?

ML;  It’s their ability to investigate beyond the obvious.  Not only the physical but the psychological as well.  It’s that. . . . .  undefinable human yearning and reaching and striving and the inescapable unexplainable.  I mean, lets face it.  We can’t explain what the hell this is all about.  What I’m doing here—– what gets you up in the morning.  There are a lot of writers and philosophers that are content to answer all the big puzzling questions for you as if they took one step beyond and so much of that is fascinating and compelling and you or I may subscribe to much of that and discover wisdom and purpose in it.  You even got the charlatans that will sell you the absolute answer and you’d be shocked, or maybe not, at how many are willing to pay dearly for that drivel.  Oh well, so goes the the big story of all the lost sheep. That’s all well.  We see it.  We’re touched and pulled by our heartstrings and the wires of wit and fantasy.  Yet, there is always and eternally that mystery that lurks, almost hidden, in the unconscious. that subtle yet very real unexplored crevice of the soul that seeks  union, that screams disquietingly at its separation and ultimate loneliness.  This, I believe is the the stuff of great writers.  Its their mad pursuit of that which is lost in humanity.  They don’t even need to show you what it is or where its at.  It’s the exploration, the unfathomable acid cool aid journey and their unflappable resolve to play there.  Thomas Wolfe takes a ride across the Carolina countryside and explores wells of human desire and fleeting sadness that so many of these so called “market writers” don’t have a clue about.

WF;  You talk about whores.  You want to sell this book, don’t you?  Are you not prostituting for a book deal?

ML;  Of coarse.  I’m not denying that.  That’s not the way I wrote it though.  I can’t write for order.  I don’t have too.  Maybe if I did, I would.  I hope not.  But I don’t.  So I’ll write any fuckin thing I like because if the deal never comes then screw it.  I got a job.  It really is about whose going to get paid, isn’t it?  Well I say no.  Its not that at all.  That’s the facade.  Van Gogh was crazy, right, but years later we’re still looking at his madness because its fuckin fascinating and disturbing.  When Kerouac started turning in manuscripts they were all over the place.  How dare this guy.  No style, poor grammar, no structure.  But somebody said hold the press.  There is something special here.  Pollack drips paint on a canvas without any form but you go see one of these masterpieces on the wall at the museum and you’ll know why its there.  Jimi Hendrix opened for the monkeys and was booed off the stage.  I’m not so bold as to try and compare myself to these guys.  That’s not my point.  My point is you show me a painter who paints by numbers or a writer who writes for the market and you won’t be showing me masterpieces or classics.  You’ll be showing me Wal-mart .

WF;  Ok.  So you value integrity in art.  Do you consider your art honest?

ML;  I consider it expressive.  Look, I’m not out here trying to shock any one.  That whole approach has gotten pitifully abused.  You said bad words and crude nasty things.  You wield a couple of guns.  Big fuckin deal man.  Nobody is going to do any thing.  Bunch of harmless mothers that would maybe like to protect their kids from that kind of stuff.  Forget it.  Cat’s outta the bag.  Unless its in the coarse of you’re expression, it means nothing.  If its done solely for the purpose of shock then its trash.  Its not bold.  Lenny Bruce was bold, man.  He got arrested and  still didn’t back down. People have gone to prison for things they believed.  That rarely happens in this day and almost never in America, unless you step on someone big and powerful.  There isn’t any body looking after the plain innocent populace.  Their the fair game of shock art.  That’s what this is about man.  With your mind.  Wanta rebel, then rebel for real.  Appearances mean nothing.  So you got twenty tattoos and thirty piercings.  If that makes you happy then rock on your bad self, brother.  If you’re trying to shock someone then you’re no different then the fat cat with the fifteen hundred dollar loafers.

WF;  Suicide is a central theme in the plays that you wrote.  Is that a personal haunt?

ML;  Its close.  My brother was a suicide victim, as was a very dear friend of mine.  If there was one common thread between them it would be beauty.  They were beautiful, simply put.  I’ve thought an awful lot about that and that is what I have concluded.  They were also very sensitive and fragile, although neither would have been described as such.  Their candles, like my character Vince, burned briefly and brilliantly.

WF;  Is that as close as it gets?

ML;  I’ve battled my demons.

WP; Alcohol and drugs?

ML; I’ve battled my demons. . . . . .Clean and serene.  Livin, laughin, and lovin.

WF;  You often make reference to music.  Is music a part of you’re writing process?

ML;  Sometimes loud and crankin, sometimes soft and melodious.  I listen to music because it helps to conjure up the ghosts that inspire me to write.

WF;  Michael, will you leave us with a poem?

ML;  This is a verse from a poem entitled “Youth”.

Ah Youth.  In all your glorious splendor.  Curse ye not a fool, not he.

For he be of that most exulted tribe, youth.

For he be of the springtime, risen majestically from the riches of the so prosperous soil, anointed by the  gentle breeze,  delivered to the  free and plentiful air, anew, fresh, born into unlimited possibility, untainted and undecided.

Do not taunt him with sorrowful agitations as to making a living or becoming something.  You were born that something special and unique, a classic.  The world awaits your spontaneity.  Your error of maddening bliss, its newest poetry.  Your foolish desire, its art.

There can be no waste, for you are a perfect creation.  Do not filth him with silted dogma, for he is clean.  The air, the clouds, the stream, the mountain, fascinations never before seen or felt.  Do not make them casual.

Do not break his spirit with adherence or force him to knuckle under the tight fists of subservience.  Do not squash his creativity with compliance.  That haunt will visit soon enough.

So be at ease, my youthful friend, in the great loins of mother nature, for it is your living room.  Smoke the coolness of the moment.

Before your gallant absurdity, your mysterious magnetism, I bow my envy.

Forgive me this unobtrusive observation and in exchange, I will promise not to be the lion tamer of your spirit.

If your journey should make you weary you may call upon me for I know the changing of the season.

While reciting the poem his lips appeared to gesture broadly.  Yet, I was drawn to his eyes which seemed to twinkle and dance as he spoke.  He spoke mostly through his eyes.

A small group of students gathered during this short recitation and applauded appreciatively after.  He bowed graciously, we shook hands and parted.

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